Lost In Translation
by BooBaLooPants
Summary: Ivan Drago is not a machine, and no-one is more stunned by that revelation than Drago himself. Seeking out the one who "broke" him appears to be the only way forward. Ivan Drago/Rocky Balboa-centric. Angsty themes.
1. A Shame

Summary: inspired to do this after reading a recent fandom secret over on lj, about Ivan Drago and how misunderstood/manipulated he is. I kind of agree, so this is what comes out. It takes place not very long after Rocky IV. Is also inspired by a pretty depressing insight Sylvester Stallone had on the future of Ivan Drago's character; basically becomes a drunk and commits suicide.

This will probably have some hints of Drago/Rocky, but in a borderline sense. This is friendship first and foremost, and there will be warnings if it is taken further in any chapter. So if you don't like, maybe don't read! ;)

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**Lost In Translation**

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**Chapter 1**

**A Shame**

Ivan wipes his mouth and looks with disinterest at the red line splitting across his hand.

It's not especially painful, and he has been expecting it anyway.

"Want me to add another one to that?" Balboa asks. He isn't taunting him. Well, so far as Ivan can tell. He isn't very good at reading people.

Isn't very good with people anyway.

Maybe Balboa _is_ taunting him.

Ivan wipes his mouth again. He's been standing in Balboa's doorway for about two minutes, attempting to say something useful. It has been an excruciating effort so far, since he can barely hold Balboa's gaze for more than a few seconds.

"Why're you here?" Balboa asks the obvious question.

Ivan isn't sure. He hasn't thought about that. Well he has, but not_ why_.

There's a difference.

He wants to say something, but his mouth is too dry and his throat feels like it might be closing in. This always happens.

He looks at Balboa's hands. They don't look very extraordinary out of their gloves. Neither does anything else about him. That's what's so amazing though.

Sometimes he wonders if it was all a dream.

He opens his mouth, and still he's a mute.

Balboa makes a snorting sound, and Ivan recognises it easily as derision. The sort which he finds too often these days, but for some reason it's much worse coming from Balboa.

"I guess you forgot to pack your tongue again," Balboa says.

Ivan tries again;

"I come to see you," he begins, and his voice breaks a bit at the end.

"Yeah, I can see that," there is mild sarcasm there, but at least Balboa is looking at him now, like he might be kind of interested. "What is it? Somethin' about the fight? You lookin' for another?" he looks Ivan up and down. "I'm done with that. I fought for Apollo. You know that."

Ivan physically recoils. His stomach tightens with the name, and even though he tries to ignore it, it's actually impossible.

It forces the words from his mouth. A soft, cracked sound. He's not even sure if he's spoken them;

"I am sorry," there it is.

There isn't so much a relief residing over him now, as there is a weight moving past his chest. Not gone, but shifting anyway.

Balboa stares at him, like he's looking at him for the first time. Ivan's not sure what it's supposed to mean, but his heart is a hammer, like it's going to burst out of him.

Balboa turns away. "I don't need no apology. It's not gonna change nothin' now, is it?"

Ivan swallows, and looks at the ground. In a way, he's furious Balboa hasn't punched him yet. He's braced for it, he's expecting it, _he wants it._

It's so disappointing.

"Who did that, anyway?" Balboa gestures to his lip. "some crazy drunk?"

Ivan shakes his head. "Someone. I don't know."

"They were probably crazy," Balboa's mouth curves something like a vague smile. "Well. Thanks anyway. For apologisin' and stuff. Guess it's appreciated."

There is nothing in his eyes.

The weight in Ivan's chest settles again, like a stubborn throb. It's not going to leave him, he understands that now. He feels dizzy.

Balboa's face draws into something like concern, and then his voice, matching it;

"You okay?..."

He's not. Definitely not.

They've told him it's normal. Beads of sweat turning red, ache in the gut, till it comes up again, and then ragged breathing.

Cold sweats.

It happens sometimes. He's been told not to worry about it, so he tries not to, but it's harder to deal with like this. When he's standing in Rocky Balboa's doorway, and Balboa is watching him like that.

"_Hey_,"

Balboa is suddenly much closer. Ivan wonders how that happened, and then wonders how he has found the floor. And his body is shaking, even though he's not cold at all.

A hand reaches his own, and then fingers curl together and Ivan does not want to let go.

"Okay, it's okay," says Balboa.

Ivan blinks up at the other man, and there is a strange moment of clarity. Then nothing else exists in his mind for a little while.

8

When he wakes, Balboa is cradling his head, like he might be something too fragile. It is almost funny.

"Wake up," Balboa says, rocking him a bit.

It's soothing, Ivan doesn't want it to stop.

"You hear me? Drago?"

It's a chore to keep his eyes open, they feel heavy. But Balboa is very close, and Ivan wants to look at him.

"I called a doctor. They're coming right now."

Ivan tries to nod, since his mouth isn't working again for some reason. His head aches and there is something warm sliding down his cheek.

"You cut yourself," Balboa explains. "When you fell,"

Ivan rolls his head to the side and closes his eyes. He doesn't even remember falling, but it doesn't matter now.

There's a hand sweeping over his face, very carefully.

He feels safe.

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~thanks for reading, more to come.


	2. Encounters

**Chapter 2**

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**Encounters**

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Waking up again is not a relief.

There are machines making whirring sounds.

Ivan is so sick of machines.

He pulls a wire from his wrist and sits up.

"They've told you to take it easy," Ludmilla places a hand on his arm.

He lies back down and stares at the ceiling. He can feel her watching him for a long time, even when he shuts his eyes, and pretends he is not there anymore.

"You can come out in a few days. Nicoli will be there to greet you,"she tells him, and then stands up.

He listens as her footsteps click along the tiled floor and fade away. He doesn't open his eyes again until he hears the door close.

8

Nicoli is waiting for him.

There is an unceremonious moment, where a hand grasps his own, and there is a forced smile between them. Maybe Ivan doesn't read people very well, but he knows Nicoli well enough, and he knows when it isn't real.

It doesn't matter anyway. All false pretences disappear when they're out of the hospital, in the dark of a foreign street.

Ivan had almost forgotten he was there.

"Balboa found you," Nicoli states, like he's just swallowed a very hard pill.

Ivan's tight smile falls away and he looks at the ground. It's easier that way.

"What sort of game was that?" Nicoli snaps. "You wanted to go crawling to that american fool for forgiveness? What has he turned you into?"

The voice echoes all about the street, and the slap of skin on skin is even louder, when Nicoli's hand connects with Ivan's face.

It stings like it always does, but Ivan does not react anymore.

He doesn't say anything.

"Ridiculous," Nicoli snorts, and then walks away.

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When he returns home he waits a few minutes outside the house. The curtains are drawn in the front bedroom, and he knows what to expect.

The front door opens then and a man walks out who Ivan does not recognise. There is a tremor of nerves on the stranger's face, but Ivan just walks past him into the house. He closes the door and looks up the stairs to see his wife in her dressing gown with a cup of coffee.

"Hello, dear," she says, with not a trace of regret. "Good flight?"

Ivan has walked in on his wife fucking before, so it isn't anything new.

Before it was Nicoli, but Ivan doesn't particularly care who it happens to be.

The only thing is that they thinks he doesn't know, and they exchange smiles that make him feel ill and like he shouldn't be there. They think he's stupid.

He's...not exactly okay with it, just resigned.

8

"I'll be accompanying Nicolai to Rome," Ludmilla tells him one early morning, kisses him briefly on the cheek. She doesn't even bother with reasons anymore.

Ivan looks at her body, naked in the morning light. They haven't had sex for a long time, and Ivan does not miss it with her. But he does miss it.

"Okay," he says, and closes his eyes.

Sometimes he wishes he hadn't come home.

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The phone rings and Ivan hears Balboa's voice on the other end.

He holds the handle a bit tighter.

"Hey. Hope you don't mind I got your number," Balboa says casually, more like a drawl. There is a tiny silence. "Just wonderin' if you're...okay..."

Ivan stares out the window. It's drizzling rain and the sky is grey.

"Yes," he says.

There is another tiny pause, and for a moment Ivan thinks the line is dead. Then;

"I'm here, just checking out the lovely scenery, you know. And I like the snow kinda, you know?"

Ivan feels his mouth turning up a fraction. "You are here?" he wonders out loud. Something strange has happened to his stomach; it feels tight, but not in a terrible way.

"Yeah. So. If you're around. Let me know."

Ivan eventually finds his voice; "yes," and hesitates. "Thank you,"

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There is a knock at the door, and Ivan almost pretends not to hear it.

His english is still quite broken, so he worries about talking, even more than usual.

Balboa looks friendly though. There is something very disarming about him, out of the ring.

Ivan wonders if he looks the same. He doesn't have much of an impression of himself.

"Is your wife around?" Balboa says, like its obligatory.

"She is away,"

"Right," Balboa nods, and then suggests going for a drink.

Ivan doesn't drink too much, which makes Balboa laugh and ask him if he's as Russian as he appears. Balboa drinks for them both, and Ivan mostly just stares at the table, wondering how this strange situation even started.

"You don't talk much, do you," Balboa says after a while, and looks thoughtful. "Is it cos of the language thing?"

He speaks in a gentle voice, like he's trying to coax something from a terrified child. Ivan also notices he has leaned forwards a bit, like he expects Ivan is going to whisper his reply.

Ivan shrugs, then clears his throat. "I'm Russian," he says in explanation.

He is happy to hear Balboa laugh at that, and he manages to look Balboa in the eye. It's not quite as terrible as he thinks it might be. "And...I am not...my english is...still not good."

"You sound fine to me," Balboa tells him, something like a smile on his face. "Anyway, I'm not exactly Shakespeare here, am I?"

Ivan looks at the table. Doesn't know what he's supposed to say.

Balboa sighs. "Let me buy you a drink. C'mon, just one."

Ivan lets him.

"Why did you come here?" he decides to ask after a while.

"Besides all the snow? Same thing as you,"

Ivan is confused.

"To say sorry," Balboa elaborates.

Ivan is even more confused. "I do not...understand..."

"I beat you up pretty good. Don't it deserve an apology?"

Something tugs up at the edges of Ivan's mouth.

"That's the first time I've seen you do that," says Balboa, and he is grinning. "Y'know, it makes a big difference."

Ivan tips his head, embarrassed, and finds himself smiling a bit more.

"Beautiful," Balboa says.

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	3. Like A Robot

This fic got homoerotic very quickly. I have no regrets. It's Ivan Drago era Dolph Lundgren. What do you expect.

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**Chapter 3 **

**Like A Robot**

The pulse of anxiety is a constant behind Ivan's exterior. His tomb of strength is always being challenged, chipped away at by outside monsters, but even more his own.

He knows that one day he'll crack and there just won't be the strength or even a purpose to fixing it anymore. It is a losing battle, between what comes for him and what fights inside of him, it is useless.

For a time, he is happy of Balboa's distraction.

The determined sheer force of the other man is already a thing of awe to Ivan, and somehow he finds himself drawn into a want he has never felt before.

8

"It's because your Russian, isn't it?" Balboa says, for perhaps the hundredth time.

He's used this as an excuse for everything Ivan says (or does not say), and does.

Like now, when Ivan can't bring himself to accept Balboa's forgiveness, not without turning away and feeling the familiar twist in his stomach.

"I mean it," Balboa says, and repeats; "I know you're sorry."

It makes little difference to Ivan. Maybe it _is_ because he's Russian, he doesn't really know anything else.

Is he supposed to be okay with killing someone now?

It can't be that easy.

Balboa places a hand on Ivan's shoulder, and it's the first time he's ever done that.

With a fierce instinct, Ivan shoves the contact away.

"Don't,"

"Why?" Balboa isn't going to back down. "You're the one who came to me, remember? Or were you too fucked up on drugs to remember any of that?"

Ivan meets Balboa's gaze, a tide of fear clinging to his torso, the realisation that Balboa probably knows everything. Of course he does.

"Didn't you come to apologise? Or was that all some dream?" Balboa presses.

"I didn't-" Ivan doesn't know why he's protesting the fact. "I am not..."

"You're _not_ sorry?" Balboa raises a brow, and although he looks entirely sceptical, there is a trace of worry on his face.

Ivan doesn't want him to think anything like that.

"No," he says quietly. "of course I am..." he tails off and bows his head.

There is the hum of voices in the background. He's almost forgotten that they're in a bar, and people occasionally brush by. Sometimes people stare at them; the poisonous amount that like to say words against Ivan, although he doesn't really hear what they say anymore.

And anyway Balboa's hand has somehow curved under his chin, tilting his head back up to look at him.

That distraction.

"I know you are," Balboa says, the assurance deep in his voice.

Somebody walks by and says something jeering, pulling Ivan out of the moment.

He gestures to the bar exit and they leave at once.

8

Outside, Balboa stares at Ivan in small confusion. "What did he say?"

Ivan shakes his head. "Nothing,"

"C'mon, that's not fair. Tell me."

Ivan feels his face heating up, and Balboa notices at once. He smiles uncertainly.

"Sorry...if that all looked a bit...over friendly in there?"

Ivan is relieved that Balboa cottons on so quickly, so relieved that he laughs a tiny bit, and feels better for it.

Balboa looks at him, happy surprise lighting up his features.

"Maybe I'll have to start doing that more often," he considers, and briefly takes Ivan's arm, as they walk away. "If I can get a laugh from the silent Russian, I must be doing something right, hm?"

8

Ivan lets Balboa lead them wherever he wants to go, and somehow they wind up outside Ivan's training facility. Balboa stares at it and whistles.

"Can we go in?" he asks, the eagerness obvious in his voice.

Ivan hesitates. Though it's ridiculous to even consider that he shouldn't, it's there anyway. Like an automatic reaction, like a robot.

"C'mon, you can tell me all your superhuman secrets," Balboa decides for him, and leads the way.

Inside it's dim and empty, not that Ivan had expected anything else.

Instinctually he looks to the spectators glass box, where Nicoli is usually watching him. To see it abandoned is strangely liberating, and Ivan does not head straight to the changing room for once. Instead he turns and watches Balboa, who is looking at everything as though it is an amazing dream.

"You got everything here," he says, and taps random buttons on random keypad consoles, watching how they light up and coordinate with different machines. "Holy shit,"

Ivan sits on a bench, smiling a bit at Balboa's awe.

"Look, what the heck is that?" Balboa says, and ends up tapping a machine to figure it out anyway. "Oh...for biceps? I get it now..." he looks at Ivan.

"Do you want to try it?"

"Sure," Balboa nods, and quickly takes a seat.

The familiar set of determination crosses Balboa's face, and Ivan watches him as he flexes and lifts the handles.

Maybe they're heavier than anticipated, because Balboa grunts, but apart from that makes no sign that he'll stop.

Ivan sits back, watching is somehow easy, and he thinks he could do it forever.

Eventually Balboa stops and wipes a hand over his brow. He grimaces a bit at Ivan;

"Are these weights set for you?"

Ivan nods.

"That figures. No wonder you're perfect," he carries on before Ivan has the chance to deny such a thing; "so you gonna show me how it's actually done?"

Ivan does a better job of disguising his uncertainty this time. After all, if he's confident of anything, its this sort of thing.

He nods and stands up, briefly looking over the machine and then sitting at it.

He puts his elbows on the rest in front of him and takes the handles, easily lifting the weights up. A screen flashes up on the machine console, giving out a few numbers.

Balboa keeps his eyes on Ivan, and Ivan is very aware of that.

He feels another set of weights, press against his shoulders.

Balboa is standing behind him, holding the tense mass of muscles there, and Ivan wants to stop flexing but somehow knows he cannot. He focuses ahead, watching the numbers get higher and more nonsensical, because really he can't concentrate on anything else.

"Your muscles are crazy," Balboa comments, like there's nothing wrong with it.

Maybe there really isn't, and Ivan is just being strange to think otherwise. Strange to feel his heart rattling in his rib cage, the thrum of his pulse getting quick with everything but the weight of the machine.

Rocky's hands are the greatest weight he's ever felt, and they're not leaving. They're tight on his shoulders, moving slowly...fingers digging against his skin, smoothly and with a rhythm, loosening the muscle...even if it's a burden on his nervous mind, the touch is gentle, and at the back of his mind, Ivan can feel himself unfolding. He likes this.

What is it...

The dimness of the gym suddenly lights up, casting them both in a spotlight.

Ivan straightens (he'd somehow found himself leaning heavily back) and the weight on his shoulders falls away in an instant.

"I saw a light on," Nicoli says. He is standing in the doorway, smiling innocently. Ivan know's better.

He blinks at the ground, listening as Nicoli gets closer to them.

"It's always nice to see you training after hours, Drago."

"I was-" Ivan speaks to the floor.

"He was giving me a demonstration, Mr. Koloff," Balboa interrupts smoothly. "Was very impressive,"

Nicoli keeps smiling. "Was it? But not on par with you I suspect, Mr Balboa?" there is a biting edge in his tone. "Though we do our best with Ivan, I'm sure you've come to appreciate that."

"Yes," Balboa nods, uncertainly. He looks at Ivan, like he expects him to say something.

Instead Nicoli walks over to him, puts a hand on Ivan's shoulder, though it is a far different sensation to anything Ivan felt a few moments before. His body freezes and his throat has closed in on itself.

"Drago is impressive, yes, Mr Balboa," Nicoli looks Balboa up and down. "But perhaps that is a greater testament to you, and how easily you claim victory," he shakes his head, more to himself, then looks down at Ivan.

Ivan blinks ahead, pretending that the hand clamped on his shoulder is not Nicoli's.

"I can assure you it was no easy victory against Drago," Balboa says. "wouldn't it be stupid to think it was? I mean, you thought he was gonna win, didn't you, Mr Koloff?"

Ivan looks up at him, always surprised by Balboa.

"True," Nicoli admits. "so greater the disappointment,"

"Mr Koloff-"

"It is a great shame, I cannot deny," Nicoli interrupts. "When you expect a specimen, made to win, turns out a loser," his mouth moves a vaguely sarcastic smile. "But what can we do, Mr Balboa? But live with that?"

Balboa pulls a face, and Ivan notices the fury flashing behind his eyes.

He is still surprised with the way Balboa grabs Nicoli's arm, and wrenches it away from his shoulder.

"Funny, how differently people look at things," Balboa says. He looks like he wants to punch Nicoli out. Ivan isn't sure he'd try to stop him.

Nicoli does not seem upset by it, and he just takes a step back, and smiles sardonically at them.

"It's interesting. To see you both out of the ring together. I can almost see...how you might forgive him, Mr Balboa," his gaze holds on Balboa for the longest time, and then he turns and leaves.

The lights dim down again in the gym.

Unconsciously, Ivan sighs and sinks forward against the bicep machine, letting his head lean heavily in his hands.

Balboa's hand hesitates on his shoulder, but this time Ivan wants it there, and all the uncertainty before that has vanished away.

"Man. What an asshole," Balboa says.

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	4. A Last Drink

**Chapter 4 - A Last Drink**

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"How do you stand him?" Rocky asks.

It's been just over a week, and Ivan is so used to Balboa being around that he doesn't like to think about when he isn't.

"I don't know how you do it," Balboa says. "he's a headcase, that's for sure."

They're walking along a strip of road Ivan isn't familiar with. Balboa has a habit of leading the way, and Ivan has a habit of following without question. Yesterday they ended up in an old mans pub, and one of the old men had stared and asked them if they were lost.

Ivan felt his face heat up and wanted to leave, whilst Balboa laughed and got into a strained conversation with them about the differences between Russian and American beer.

Now Ivan is getting used to when Balboa does things like that, or at least he's starting to learn what to expect.

"So. Are you ever going to stand up to that guy? Or you gonna just, you know, keep acting like his pet robot, or something?" Balboa stops at the corner of some street.

Ivan turns to face him. "pet robot?" he wonders.

Balboa snorts. "yeah. Look, I'm not tryin' to be rude or nothin', but he's playin' you a fool, Drago."

Ivan considers. Balboa hasn't really stopped ranting about Nicoli since that incident in the gym. He doesn't want to let it go, and Ivan is confused and fascinated by it.

He keeps wondering if it's because Balboa actually cares.

"Nicoli is my superior," he decides simply. "I have to take his orders,"

"you don't _have _to do anything, you lunatic," Balboa starts to say something else, but then seems to think better of it. Instead he just looks Ivan up and down and shakes his head, smiling a bit. "c'mon. Let's make the last drink a good one,"

Ivan lets Balboa take his elbow, realising that this is his last night in Russia.

He didn't imagine he'd be sad about it, but there it is.

"Maybe I'll achieve the impossible, and get you drunk?" Balboa grins.

8

They go to a bar Ivan has never seen before. All streaking lights and loud disco music.

Ivan pushes some money into Balboa's hand.

"For me?" Balboa puts on a girlish tone and laughs. "thanks, Drago," his tone is sincere though, and Ivan leans on a table, watching Balboa's back as he goes to get the drinks.

There's figures dancing all around him, but Ivan isn't keen on anything like this at all. If he could he'd be outside, or maybe even at home.

He wonders if he really is a robot sometimes.

He blinks up and notices Balboa is talking to a women at the bar. She's curling her hair round her ear and laughing.

Ivan looks away. At least he'd be able to talk to Balboa at home.

"Hey," Balboa taps his shoulder and puts a drink in his hands. "Thought maybe I was gonna lose you in all these crazies for a minute,"

Ivan follows Balboa's gaze all around, barely noticing that a group of women have been edging around him, closer and closer.

"D'you want me to save you?" Balboa smirks around his drink.

Ivan swallows, obscenely embarrassed, and nods his head.

Balboa grabs his arm and pulls him away. "sorry, ladies. He's taken."

Ivan lets Balboa drag him through the crowd, through the blur of lights and dancing bodies, and then to a dark corner of the bar.

"Perfect," Balboa says, and takes a seat. "we'll be safe for...oh, about five minutes, maybe?"

Ivan tips back his drink, wanting to disappear with his embarrassment.

"Does it ever get old?" Balboa is still smirking at him.

"What?"

"You know what. You could have your pick of_ anyone_ in this room."

Ivan frowns at the table. "I don't think so,"

"Sure you can,"

"I am married," Ivan tells him. It's far harder to say than he'd thought.

Balboa leans back in his chair. "Yeah, but you wouldn't know it,"

Ivan looks at him, feels like he's been hit harder than any punch he ever got in the ring.

"What do you mean?" he holds his glass a little tighter.

"Just what you think," Balboa mutters, stirring his drink with an idle finger.

Ivan feels hot and uneasy. For once he's thankful for the blasting music, thumping against his ears, and the distracting shapes of people dancing around them. Anything to save looking at Balboa for another moment.

A few people are staring at them like vultures, Ivan stands and goes to the restroom.

8

Inside it's much cooler, and the pounding music is just a dull thump against Ivan's head.

He leans against the tiled wall and Balboa's voice echoes about his mind, like he knows everything.

"Are you mad with me?"

Balboa is standing in the doorway. He looks kind of upset.

"think I needed a bit of um...fresh air too," he looks at the stained urinal stands and curls his lip. "those girls love any old american accent, apparently."

Ivan pushes away from the wall, and shakes his head. "I'm not mad,"

"Even if you sometimes act like a robot, you don't lie very well," Balboa steps properly into the room, smiles half heartedly. "Look, I'm sorry I said that about your marriage. It's not my place to say stuff like that. I don't know what goes on with you and your woman. So I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Ivan says automatically, and feels resigned. "it is not...much of a marriage."

"I'm sure it's not that bad,"

"It's not bad. Just...disappointing." Ivan can't think of any other way to describe it.

He has seen the way Balboa looks when he talks about Adrian. It's something Ivan doesn't think he'll ever know.

The touch of skin over his hand startles him to his senses. He blinks to find Balboa's hand there, vaguely touching him, but his attention is on the door.

"C'mon. I think the crowds died down a bit. We can survive one last drink, right?"

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They leave after a few more than one last drink, and Ivan feels dizzy and wonders if Balboa can tell that he's having trouble walking properly.

Balboa's shoulder bumps him, and then Ivan realises he's just as drunk.

Balboa hugs himself. "Man, it's cold."

Ivan looks sideways at him, thinks about offering his jacket, but hesitates too long.

Balboa walks ahead, "where are we, anyways?"

"I'm not sure," Ivan says, and he still doesn't recognise the street at all. He's not worried, though. For once, he's kind of relaxed. He ambles a little closer to Balboa. "Are you...are you going back tomorrow, then?"

"Yeah, around midday. I think the kid's missing me."

"Your wife, too?"

"Oh, she says she don't, but I can tell when she's winding me up, you know?" Balboa smiles, mostly to himself it seems. Ivan envies that look, how Balboa seems to recall a fond memory with such ease.

For a moment Ivan wishes he was a part of whatever it is.

"You gonna miss me?" Balboa asks. He sounds like he's joking. He probably is, but Ivan answers anyway, not having to think;

"Yes,"

"Yeah?" Balboa looks at him, like it's such a shock. Then he laughs and pats Ivan's shoulder. Even though he's drunk, his expression seems to sober when he looks at Ivan properly. "well, me too. Hey, wait a minute," He stops walking and digs around in his pockets. "It's here somewhere."

Ivan stands there, swaying in his own vague intoxication. He finds his hand is rested on Balboa's shoulder, and Balboa is holding his arm with his free hand, like he's keeping him upright, and he knows Ivan is such a lightweight. It probably looks really strange. Ivan doesn't really care.

"Damnit," Balboa curses. "I'm sure I brought it with me-"

At the same time a voice yells. It's very close to Ivan's ear, but Ivan reacts too slowly.

He hears a cry and then he sees Balboa on the floor, holding a bloody lip.

There's a man standing over him, and something metallic is shining in his hand.

He swears in Russian, but doesn't get a step closer to Balboa.

Ivan cuts in between them and pounds his fist straight into the attacker's gut.

The man drops the knife and falls like a dead weight.

"Shit," Balboa scrambles to his feet, eyes wide. "Is he...?"

Ivan doesn't care about that. He holds Balboa's shoulder. "are you okay?" he asks. The blood on Balboa's lip looks black in the dark.

"Yeah, man. Don't worry," Balboa is still looking at the fallen attacker. "Shit." he says again.

Ivan tears his gaze away from Balboa, and then feels sick. His hand is throbbing a bit with that punch, even though it was clumsy. He keeps forgetting he's kind of a good boxer.

He doesn't want to have that guilt again. Even if it's just for some stupid tramp on the street.

For a moment he is petrified, then he notices the man's chest moving, and a groan escapes his mouth.

"You big dope," Balboa laughs unevenly. "I thought you killed him,"

"So did I," Ivan kneels down. The weight of this relief is sudden and overwhelming. His legs feel unsteady. He rubs a hand roughly over his face.

Another shadows falls across him.

"He'll be okay," Balboa says gently. "well, maybe a bit brain damaged...but seems like he probably already was," he attempts to joke, and Ivan appreciates it somewhere in his frustration.

"I was stupid," he murmurs. "that was stupid."

"Hey, you're my hero," Balboa corrects him. "Could've saved my life."

Ivan stares at the knife, lying a few feet away. "Could have killed him,"

Balboa sighs. "let's just get this bum to a hospital and we can forget about it."

8

A hospital turns out to be just down the road, and they leave the tramp in the waiting room, slumped between a Coke machine and a man muttering something about his pregnant sister-in-law. Ivan and Rocky leave when a nurse comes over to see to their crazy tramp.

Outside, Ivan calls for a cab and pays for it to take them home.

Balboa laughs about his attacker, and wonders if most Russians are out for his blood or if it's just a one off sort of thing.

Ivan feels sleepy and kind of sick. He really is a lightweight. Still he enjoys listening to Balboa talk.

Outside Ivan's house, they stand for a few minutes, not really awkward, but there's a strange atmosphere. Ivan notices that Balboa's lip is still dark with blood.

"Do you want something...for the cut?" he asks.

Balboa touches his lip. "Nah. thanks. Ain't nothin' compared to the ring, right?" he grins, and then grimaces with the way it makes his lip throb. "Nice right hook, though."

"I'm sorry," Ivan feels obligated to say. "Not everyone is...crazy,"

Balboa laughs, in a knowing way. "Oh, I figured that."

Ivan can feel Balboa's eyes on him for a few long seconds. Then Balboa seems to have a light bulb moment. He searches in his pockets again.

"ah, I knew it was here somewhere," he takes out some little rectanglar tab with a victorious face. "Here, you keep this," he puts it in Ivan's hand.

It's a ticket to America. Ivan stares at it blankly, then at Balboa.

"Why?"

Balboa shrugs. "I dunno. Just in case you ever wanted to drop by again. I can give you a proper tour. I even got a robot butler," he pauses, "Plus, America can be pretty alright, y'know?"

Ivan thinks he understands what Balboa's saying. Somehow his heart beats a little faster, and he can feel himself smiling at the ticket. He puts it in his pocket.

He doesn't hesitate or anything, when he takes Balboa's hand and gives it a firm shake.

"Thank you," he says. "It was good to see you again, Balboa," he means it.

"Look. Call me Rocky. Everyone who saves me from drunk Russian tramps does," Rocky smiles in an earnest way, like he hopes that Ivan will call him that.

Ivan looks at the ground, but smiles too. "okay."

He can't bring himself to say it yet though.

"Take care, Ivan," says Rocky.

8

Later, as he's lying in bed, Ivan stares at the ticket. It's there on the bedside, waiting for him to pick it up and fucking use it.

He knows Ludmilla will be angry, but that's the point.

Ivan turns over and looks at the empty spot where Ludmilla is supposed to be. He places a palm over the cold sheets.

Whether she leaves him or not, It won't make any difference. And this is probably the only chance he'll get, to give her a reason to leave.

He tries to wait till morning, but only manages a few minutes.

He picks up the phone.

Balboa's voice is groggy but amused on the other end;

"Guess I'll pick you up at noon then?"

888

888


End file.
